Time, Printed Poem by Rahman Henry

No night is throughout dark,
Same brightness is not possible for all the days.

In the loneliness of a night,
The clock sounds: tick tick, tick tick...
It seems to me: drum-beat noise—

Dreams germinate from the seed-beds of disappointments.

So many nights passed, I've not dreamed single dream—
Sending our sorrows to exile in forests,
We ourselves too entered into the secret bloodshed of the palace;

Inside our chest, fearless hearts beating
That seems to us: the brutal footsteps of the assassinators—